


Let The Instinct Guide You

by hexthejinx



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Everyone's a Werewolf, Blood, Dubious Consent, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Naked Male Clothed Male, Outdoor Sex, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexthejinx/pseuds/hexthejinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles was expecting that heat to be like the previous ones: wearing, painful and lonely. He still got two out of three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let The Instinct Guide You

**Author's Note:**

> It is my first Peter/Stiles story. I don't even ship them tbh, but I one day I got this idea in my mind, and yeah, that's the result.

_let the instinct guide you_  
 _let it drive you through_  
 _until it’s all you know_  
 _until it’s all that’s left_  


He’s running. He doesn’t care where he’s heading to, or if anyone may see him. Nothing matters, except for that fire inside his body, the one he can do nothing to put out. The one which seems to be eating him from the inside. He lets out a wail, half in pain and half in frustration at his inability to relieve himself in any way. As he reaches a small clearing, he tumbles and falls down, landing on a soft, mossy surface. He doesn’t get up, suddenly not feeling like he is able to do so. Instead, he uses the momentum of his body to rub frantically against the undergrowth, not minding some pine needles pricking his naked skin. He’s so gone. 

***

Stiles had never enjoyed his heats. Who enjoys them anyway? Oh yeah, people who are lucky enough to have heat mates, somebody to take the edge off, to fulfill the overwhelming desire. Stiles was not that kind of a person, much to his dismay. He was sixteen, lanky and a bit geeky, not exactly unpopular but not on the top of the Beacon Hills High School social ladder either. Which in practice meant that he had some friends, was invited to parties from time to time and could always find somebody to hang out with on Friday night, but when it came to dating, or even casual hook-ups... Nope. Nothing, nada, null. Stiles liked to comfort himself with the thought that he was still very young, and a lot of people have no game in high school, but when they reach their twenties suddenly there’s bam, so hot! In the worst case, he was certain he would at least gain some muscle by the end of college. But until that time, he was condemned to lonely, tenacious heats.

When the time of month came, his father would lock him up in a small room down in their basement, bare except for a mattress on the floor. Stiles would love to have at least some sex toys to help him get through the heat. Of course, none of them would satisfy the need completely, it was something only another werewolf could do. But it would be something, something beside a handjob or humping the mattress, and maybe the heats would be a tiny bit more bearable. Unfortunately, his father had never thought about such an improvement, probably because of him being a beta and having the heat only once a year, a much less intense one, on a top of that. As much as he sympathized with his son, he had no way of knowing how wearing the omega heats really were and Stiles was too embarrassed to ever bring up the topic of the toys by himself.

***

He hears the sound first, a pitiful call of a lonely, horny omega. That alone is like a music to his ears, but as he starts in the direction of the sound, trying to locate the source, a smell hits his nostrils and it’s _divine_. A sweet, rich, musky scent, the like of he hasn’t encountered in a long, long time. There’s a sudden urge to chase, to catch, to claim. He tampers on his instincts, wanting to remain as clear headed as he can. A frown twists his features, slight annoyance mixing with astonishment. He hasn’t felt this way since his teenage years, when his main drive was his own frenzied hormones. After taking a minute to regain control over his wolf, he speeds up, letting his senses to guide him.

***

Stiles’ father was always very thorough when it came to locking Stiles up. He double checked all the locks in order to be sure his son wouldn’t break out and get into trouble while his sex clouded brain was in charge. But every one makes mistakes, and that one time John made one too. He had been airing out the room earlier that day and he forgot to put the padlock back onto the window latch. A small, narrow window, useless for anything than letting some light into the room, but big enough for a slim, teenage boy to slip through. Stiles didn’t notice the lack of the padlock either when he took off his clothes and sat down on the mattress, miserably waiting for the heat to kick in.

He wasn’t so unobservant a couple of hours later, when the moon was high up in the sky and his reason was washed away by the overwhelming need.

***

The sight that welcomes him into the clearing is as unusual as it is wonderful: a teenage boy, stark naked, writhing on the forest floor, whimpering. This close, the scent is overpowering and even sweeter. He is eager to sink in it completely. He takes a few confident steps, approaching the boy and crouching down beside him.

“Shhh,” he whispers, stroking up the teenager’s shoulder. The omega flinches, looks up at him with wide eyes.

“Wh-” the boy starts to say, but his words are immediately muffled with a hand on his mouth.

“Shh,” he says again, and moves his other hand down, wrapping it around the boy’s dick. He can almost see as the lone conscious thought about remaining cautious in the presence of him, a strange, older man, about feeling ashamed at being naked in somebody’s company, flees the omega’s mind. The boy’s eyelids shut as he shifts his hips forward, bucking up into the grip on his erection. 

“Yeah, that’s much better, isn’t it?”

***

It really is. It shouldn’t be. Stiles doesn’t know this man, a man who is touching his junk, for fuck’s sake. It should feel wrong, repulsing. It feels amazing. Stiles lets out a moan as the hand continues to move up and down his dick. Jerking himself off doesn’t even stand close to that sensation. It’s not enough to put down the fire in his guts, but it helps to extinguish it just a little bit. The simple touch of someone else achieves more than Stiles has ever managed since he’s started to go into heats at the age of fourteen and he doesn’t want it to end.

The man chuckles. It isn’t a warm laugh, and Stiles would be wary if he had the capacity to use his reason. Without taking his hand away, the man sits down on the ground, legs stretched and spread wide. He pulls Stiles between them until he rests against the man’s chest. The hand on his mouth is gone, allowing Stiles to make a loud, appreciative noise on a particularly good stroke. He tries to fuck into the stranger’s fist, but an arm wraps around his middle, pressing him tight against the man body, hindering any unimpeded movements.

“No,” the man says simply, his breath ghosting against Stiles’ earlobe.

Stiles whimpers, but thankfully, the hand on his dick starts to move faster, squeeze tighter, the friction enough to put him on the edge. A minute later he comes, breath hitching in his throat and his whole body going rigid for a second, only to sag against the man the next moment.

When his mind clears, it is to the feeling of a mouth sucking on his neck. 

“No, wait...” he protests weakly, trying to entangle himself from the stranger’s embrace. The man lets him, his grip loosening easily. Stiles crawls away but doesn’t go very far. The orgasm left him spent; he doesn’t even have the strength to stand up. He sits up with his back propped up against the nearby tree, drawing his knees up to his chest in a belated attempt to cover himself. 

The stranger is still sitting in the same position, smirking at Stiles in a way that makes him shiver, and not in a good way. For the first time, he takes a good look at the man. It’s hard to pinpoint his age; his not exactly young, but he could be in his early thirties as much as early forties, though he doesn’t seem to be older than that. He’s also not bad to look at and Stiles is lucid enough to admit to himself that he _could_ be attracted to the man, if the circumstances were right. Yet, there’s something more about him, something that surpasses the handsome face. Stiles can sense it on the instinctual level: it’s dangerous, ruthless and probably not entirely sane. He tightens his hold on his legs, trying to physically shield himself from the man.

The man bends one leg and rests the elbow on his knee, looking completely relaxed, like such situations were a daily occurrence to him. “What’s your name, pretty thing?” he asks, small smile still playing on his lips. 

Stiles is too shocked about being referred to as ‘pretty’ to feel offended about the ‘thing’ part and come back with a witty answer. Instead, he replies simply, “Stiles.”

“Stiles,” the man repeats slowly, tasting the name and dragging out the l. “Well, Stiles, I think you know that your current state won’t last for too long. Soon you’re going to be back to rolling in the moss, crying out in pain. A truly deplorable sight, let me tell you.”

Stiles feels his cheeks heat up. He was barely aware of what he was doing before, too focused on trying to relieve himself in any way. For all he knows, the man could have been watching him for a long time, and God knows how pathetic he looked like, sprawled naked on the ground, rubbing against undergrowth. He swallows and wets his lips, willing his mind to start working in its usual swiftness. 

“Uhm... I guess I’ll get going, then? Back to my house, before it gets bad again.”

“You could,” the man agrees, nodding slowly. Before Stiles gets the chance to let out a relieved breath and try to scramble up and leave with as much dignity as possible in the situation, the man continues. “But you could also stay. Let me help. Let me make it good for you, so good.”

He shifts onto his hand and knees and crawls the few feet separating him from Stiles, cornering him against the tree. His face is suddenly uncomfortably close, lips brushing against the boy’s ear. “What do you say to that, little omega?” he whispers.

“Don’t call me that,” Stiles manages to choke out. 

The man chuckles again, warm puff of air stroking Stiles’ earlobe. “How? Omega? Are there any other pet names you prefer instead?”

Stiles lifts his hands up and presses them against the man’s chest with the intention to push him off. He feels his fingers clenching in the fabric of the other werewolf’s shirt. The man moves his head to the side and suddenly there is a mouth on Stiles’ lips, a tongue pushing its way inside. He gasps and uses the hold on the shirt to bring the man closer as he kisses back.

Stiles doesn’t have that much experience in kissing. His first one was with his childhood friend Heather, both of them curious how it feels and why people seem to like doing it so much. It was awkward and clumsy, two eleven years old children hidden in the bushes at the back of Heather’s parents' garden, lips clenched and noses bumping. Afterwards they decided that either kissing was seriously overrated, or maybe that you need to be older to enjoy it. His second one was with some random girl whose name he hasn’t even remembered, at some party where they played truth or dare. That one was slightly better, but still it had nothing on the current one. The man kisses with a confidence neither of the girls possessed, demanding in a way that should make Stiles worry, but instead causes him to wrap his hands around the man’s waist and groan quietly into the kiss. Something warm uncoils in his belly, slowly spreading throughout his whole body. It’s the familiar fire, temporarily diminished by the handjob, coming to life again. Whether it’s because of the kiss or because of how much time has passed since his last relief, Stiles doesn’t know, but he knows that once he lets the man go, he’ll be left to fight the fire alone.

The man pulls back and grins down at Stiles, a dangerous predator smile. The angle is wrong and Stiles realizes that somewhere along the way he has lain down, his legs spread to accommodate the man between them. His naked body is pressed all the way against the man’s still fully clothed one, his cock half hard again. He flushes, cheeks and neck pinking. 

“Is that a yes?” the man asks, obviously amused about Stiles’ discomfort.

“I don’t even know your name,” Stiles complains. It’s not like it’s a real issue for him, but the part of his mind that isn’t obscured with the heat tries to come up with something, anything that would gave him a reason to decline.

“It’s Peter.”

***

The omega’s - Stiles’ - heat resurfaces quickly, not giving him a chance to persuade himself into leaving. It works in Peter’s favor. Soon he has the boy panting and writhing under his body again. He’s busy sucking at the side of the boy’s neck, tongue darting out every so often to lick at the skin, when Stiles groans, his voice shaky with need.

“Please.”

Peter releases the flesh with an almost inaudible smack. “Please, what?”

“More, I... I need more.”

He grins at the admission and rises, ignoring a small sound of protest from Stiles. He gestures towards a fallen tree on the side of the clearing. “Hands and knees. There.”

Stiles nods numbly and moves to obey, not even bothering to get up, choosing to crawl to the spot instead. He lowers the upper half of his body behind the trunk, his weight resting on his elbows. This allows him to prop his chest against the tree, ass staying up in the air. He wiggles it a little and spreads his thighs invitingly. He’s fully hard again, the tip of his erection brushing the skin of his stomach.

Peter laughs out loud, closing the space between them in a few brisk steps. He kneels behind the boy and uses his left hand to grab one of the omega’s cheek and move it to the side.

“Ever done it to yourself?” he asks, voice quiet but clear. “Played with your little asshole?”

“Once,” Stiles grunts out. 

“Did you come from that?”

Stiles shakes his head. Peter lets go of the cheek and brings his palm down, slapping it with a force that jostles the whole Stiles’ body.

“Answer me when I’m asking, little omega.”

“No. Please.” The last word is a long groan.

“Eager, I see,” Peter comments with amusement and sinks his finger into the boy’s hole. It goes in easily and when he brings it out, it’s glistening wet in the moonlight. “Look at you, wet already.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, but the way he pushes his ass against the man’s hand is an answer enough. Peter slips his finger back and quickly adds another. He moves them in and out for a few moments, scissoring them inside Stiles for a couple of times. As an afterthought, he also adds a third. He doesn’t think it’s necessary, but he wouldn’t like to break his new toy so soon. The boy’s breathing quickens as Peter smears the omega’s mucus around. He lets go of the cheek and uses the free hand to unbutton and unzip his pants. He slides them down only slightly, his underwear following, just enough to bring out his cock. It’s half-ready and it hardens quickly when he slicks it up with what is left on his right hand fingers after preparing Stiles.

One of his hands grabs on Stiles’ hip while the other grips his dick and lines it up at the omega’s entrance. He moves forward slightly causing the head of his dick to disappear into the hole. Stiles whines and presses back, eager to have the other werewolf inside him. Peter doesn’t waste time. He uses both of his hands to hold onto Stiles and in one swift movement he bottoms out, his erection sliding wholly in.

“So tight,” he murmurs, eyes closing shut. In this moment, Peter loses control. As his instincts take over, he wolfs out, fangs prolonging, claws extending and digging into a soft, meaty flesh covering the boy’s hipbones. This time the sound Stiles utters is definitely the one of pain, but Peter doesn’t care, doesn’t pay attention to small rivulets of blood trickling down the omega’s thighs. He starts to move, setting up a punishing pace, his cock sliding out and slamming back in the body underneath him in fast jerks. Noise fills the small clearing; gasps of pain and pleasure, skin slapping against naked flesh, uneven breathing. 

Peter is completely focuses on his pleasure. He relishes in the feeling of tight, wet heat around his dick, the pungent smell filling his nostrils, the broken moans the omega lets out in almost unrestrained current. Peter himself stays quiet, at least until there’s a familiar heat spreading in his stomach, the sensation of his balls tightening. He comes, and as he shoots his release into the omega’s ass, he throws his head back, howling loud and long. It’s a triumphant sound, announcing a successful conquer, a claim laid on another werewolf. He bends down and bites forcefully on the back of the omega’s neck. The boy cries out and tries to squirm away, but Peter doesn’t loose up his hold, both teeth and claws sinking deeply into the boy’s soft, yielding flesh. He tastes blood and it makes him dizzy.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, locked together, but when he finally pulls out, retreating his teeth and claws as well as his cock, Stiles slumps down heavily, his body devoid of the power necessary to hold him up. Peter doesn’t check up on him. He can hear the boy’s heart, a loud rapid beating affirming that he is alive and this is all that matters to Peter. Any eventual wounds will heal, there’s no need to worry about insignificant details like that. He tucks himself in and adjusts his rumpled clothes, making sure he’s presentable again. There’s no one in the vicinity other than the omega curled up on the ground, but that doesn’t mean Peter can walk around looking like a hobo. He casts one last look at the boy, the corners of his mouth turning up in self-satisfied smirk. He leaves the clearing as quietly as he entered it, vanishing in the dark.

***

When Stiles gets back home it’s almost dawn, the sky in the east much lighter then in the west. He sneaks into the basement the same way he left it, squeezing through the narrow window. He curls up on the mattress and prays his dad won’t come in in the morning, because there’s no way he could explain the way he smells right now, without admitting that he managed to escape. His scent is a heady mix of spunk, desire and another werewolf, and he can’t smell his usual aroma anymore. It’s disconcerting and unsettling, to the point that despite the exhaustion he is not able to fall asleep. All that he wants is to take a long, hot shower, to scrub his body raw until he smells like himself again, not like him. Peter.

There’s Peter’s come dried up on the back of his tights, clogging his asshole. It trickled out of him as soon as he was able to move and made an attempt at standing up. His sides are adorned with two matching sets of claw marks, still not fully healed, red lines trailing down his legs in the pattern the blood made as it seeped from the wounds. There are abrasions all over his chest, made from scraping against the coarse surface of the fallen trunk he was bended over. He can’t see the back of his neck but he’s sure it doesn’t look pretty either. He didn’t even tried to clean up before he made his way back home, too set on actually getting there, too focused on sneaking around the town so nobody could see him running naked through Beacon Hills.

He’s lucky; his father is in a hurry as he is getting ready for work. He unlocks the door and doesn’t try to enter the basement or even peak inside. During his previous heats Stiles often fell asleep stark naked, sprawled on the floor without any cover, all his private parts exposed. His father was a decent enough person that he didn’t want to embarrass his son by walking in on him, laid out in such compromising position. It’s the same this morning; he only shouts through the door asking if Stiles is awake and okay. When he hears an affirmative answer, he says something about coming back from work late today, so it’s better that Stiles doesn’t wait for him with dinner. Then he’s gone, which allows Stiles to drag his body upstairs and take that long-awaited shower.

He can’t decide how he feels right now. On the one hand he’s aware that he has been used, thoroughly fucked and left alone in the woods without a word or even a friendly gesture. He should feel disgusted with himself, dirty and impure. He should be angry with Peter, telling his dad everything about the last night and reporting a crime. But as it was happening, when Peter’s cock was buried inside his ass, slamming into him with a brutal force, rubbing against his prostate every now and then, he loved it. He pushed against the thrusts, moaning loudly for more like a cheap whore. The worst of all, he came from the sensation of being fucked open. He didn’t even have to touch himself. Nothing that Peter did, no amount of pain he brought on Stiles, made his erection go down. If anything, it only turned him on more, in some sick, twisted way. The bite to his neck was the final straw and as the teeth clenched on his skin his orgasm overtook him, almost causing him to black out. When he emerged from that blissful cloud that seemed to fog his brain, Peter was already long gone, only faint traces of his smell still present in the air. Stiles wonders what the fact that he managed to get off on being used in a painful way makes him. Is he some sort of a deviant now?

In the end he just curls up in his bed, finally clean and dressed in his worn off, comfortable pajamas. He pushes all the inconvenient thoughts to the back of his head, files them away to look at them closely later, when he is more awake and capable of making rational arguments.

He sleeps until the late afternoon. He pretty much empties the fridge, the after-heat hunger even more nagging then usual. Using a small hand mirror and the bigger mirror in the bathroom he checks the base of his neck. The bite mark is there, big and vivid, two rows of teeth neatly impressed on his pale skin. He figures out he can cover it with his usual layers of clothing and a baggy hoodie or a jacket. The rest of the evening passes as ever. He listens to some music, fools around on his computer, even talks to Scott for a few minutes. He’s very deliberately not thinking about the previous night and its implications.

He doesn’t tell his dad. Not that day, not the next, not the day after that.

***

A few days later Stiles is sorting through the pile of mail his dad has brought from the mailbox and dropped unceremoniously on the kitchen table. Bills, bills, spam, a flyer from that new pizza place on the other side of the town, spam, another bill, how the hell they are suppose to pay for all of this, a plain white envelope... An envelope?

There’s no address or a stamp, only ‘Stiles’ written across it in a flourish, elegant handwriting. Stiles sniffs at it carefully and he recognizes the smell in an instant. He casts a panicked look behind his back, but his father is nowhere in sight. He folds the envelope in two and puts it in the back pocket of his jeans.

It’s several minutes later, in the safety of his bedroom when Stiles decides to open it. Inside there’s a business card, minimalist font and light beige background. _Peter Hale_. The address is not in Beacon Hills, but not too far away, in the nearest bigger town. He turns it around and there’s a sentence on the back, written in the same handwriting as his name on the envelope.

_If you ever want to repeat our lovely evening._

He crunches the card in his hand and throws it across the room so hard it lands under his chest of drawers. 

“Fuck you,” he spits out into the empty room and stomps out, ignoring the heat that spreads through his body at the memory.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a plan to make it a series, with two or three parts coming up.
> 
> Check out my [Tumblr](http://hexthejinx.tumblr.com)!


End file.
